His
desperation, so succinctly held within.As
if the feel of real must be a sin.Christian
still, the alleluias rangwithin
the withering of might have been.Reaching
north, the icy climbs of mindbecame
the only comfort known. Numbnessand
the feel of death delighted times inside himthat
had never felt the pain of heart and soul.

Sweating
in the silence of a fieldof
sunburned grass. Wonderingwhere
all the pleasure went.Wishing
for the best withoutthe
feeling of the worst. Knowingthat
the limits of his mindset had beencursed.
So long ago, the memorieshad
faded. Fearing truth as if the shoresof
Hades would impinge upon the lifehe
thought he lived. Preferring only halfthe
shifts of his imagination. While deepwithin
the night, the great migration of thelight
was filling him. Past the point ofoverflowing.
Growing ever strongerin
the realm of time that always passedhim
by.

He
tried to run away from past,but
found the future grinding intoevery
dream he'd tried to makeinto
an alternate reality. He lostand
gained another sense of speedas
age in time began to warpthe
edges of his weary mind.Defensive
anger covered overall
his rage, still undiscoveredby
an ego ever swelled by momentaryspells
of dwindling ecstasy.

Imprisoned
by the battle lore of men,he'd
always sworn he'd find successwithin
the blood of every massacrerecorded
in unfeeling histories.For
he believed the married widowsought
to feel the overwhelmingsense
of pain that lay within him.And
so he sent it out into eternity.Surprised
at how the interplayso
quickly brought it back to him.Perhaps
another game would provehim
right. Above and yet withinthe
powers of the endless nightmaresthat
he lived into the light of every day.

Counting
out the hatred in the changethat
he kept making all too real.His
moneylenders' heart turned ever blue.Living
on an interest that was never reallyhis
to claim at all. Rising higher on the backof
every client that he managed to draw near.Even
as the ones he claimed to holdso
very dear were dissipating. Falling everfurther
into chasms that he blastedin
his chosen repetitions. Rushing on,the
movement was his focus. Casualtieswere
laid to rest, to keep perspective fresh.Perfection
was an idiom. The winnerof
each game the only one allowed tointermesh
in realms of great delight.

While
deep within his dreams, an alteredimage
flared into his sleeping being.As
confusion struck his fortress into dust.Awakening,
he could not shake the feelingof
part ownership in death. His focus lostamid
the gross, unfriendly feel of this newconcentration.
Moving through his veins.Absorbed
inside. While out there, at the edgeof
every vision he'd maintained, an endcame
to replace each new beginning.And
there he saw the glass again.Half
full and yet half empty, just the same.How
great, the range of strangersthat
applauded him just then.

The
child inside had tumbled o'er the rim.His
desperation, so succinctly held within.As
if the feel of real must be a sin.His
moment had come. Like the dawnof
the sun o'er the darkness. Or moonlightsending
reams of starlight into every dream.He
turned and walked away from the realityhe
once had co-created. As his errant choiceof
partners lived the hatred he had hidden there -inside
the growing silence of his ever vagrant stare...